Fleeting Still
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: Following the defeat of the Dark Elves, the Allfather's nature altered greatly. Many attributed it to mourning the loss of a wife and son, with only Sif suspecting anything more. Meanwhile, the ghost of a dead prince seeks to haunt her dreams. Sif/Loki


**Fleeting Still**

**Goodness, it has been a long while since I've posted! I know I promised a Star Trek piece, however, I saw Thor a few weeks ago and have had this niggling about my mind. **

**DISCLAIMER: Marvel and her characters are not mine. **

**-XXX-**

This time, she does not get the luxury of hearing the news from a friend. Before, Thor had found her on one of the lonely balconies, this one just a ways from the basement weaponry. It has a view of the stables. She had been sharpening a dagger, was just thinking of polishing her shield, then journeying to the stables below to visit her gelding. Alabastor had not been tended to in some time. She was considering of popping by the kitchens for an apple to treat him with.

It was only the day before that the Allfather had awoken. Thor had returned. The bifrost, crumbled. Though her position was one of intimacy with the family, Sif had not seen nor heard from a single member of the household over the course of the day. There were whispers about the court of Loki's bravery against the frost giants, Thor's defiance of the Allfather's banishment, and a thousand theories as to what destroyed the rainbow bridge than connected the realms. Sif was one of only a few who knew of the second prince's more questionable actions.

When he came to her, it was of a heavy heart. He lingered in shadow, saying only her name, startling her from her vigorous motion of steel against stone.

"Thor," she said simply, dropping the weapon to provide him with her fullest attention.

While appearing in good health, the prince looked impossibly weary. Aged, almost, as though he had taken upon a thousand years over less than five days.

"What is the word, Thor?" she inquired. "We have not heard anything of what occurred when you left us yesterday. The bifrost –"

"Destroyed," he answered shortly. "To save the nine realms." A black look came upon his features then. But it was nothing in comparison to the expression her next question struck.

"We are separate," she said softly – thinking, that if she could not offer a soft demeanor or soft skin, she could at least give her prince a gentle voice. "From all others?"

He didn't dare to speak. Sif knew they both thought of the scientist back in Midgard. Jane Foster. The thought of separation pierces her heart.

"I am sorry."

Again, he used no words, but he does move to sit next to the shield maiden. One of her hands automatically rose to meet his shoulder. She could feel an intended thanks radiating from the weary man. It twisted her heart even further.

Sif longed to ask after the Allfather and the second prince. She had no doubt Thor's demeanor is also being affected by the betrayal of his younger brother.

She hadn't seen Loki since confronting him in the great hall, a few hours before she and her companions left to return Thor from Midgard. She assumed he was perhaps being held in the dungeons below the golden palace, or at least locked in some kind of serious conference with his father and brother. This reminded her of the time his lips were sewn shut, and she suppressed a shudder at the thought.

Thor spoke again. "We lost Loki."

She could not contain herself. "What?"

The elder prince's entire face twisted into a grimace – a loss of all composure. "Loki…fell from the bifrost."

It felt as if the moment were frozen. Nothing in the entire realm stirred, all was stalk-still at the prince's words. When Sif could force the words from her throat, they are halting and short.

"He…fell?" Her eyes had flickered up to meet Thor's blank as a fresh piece of newly stretched parchment.

The hollowness in his voice as unmistakable. "I fear perhaps he jumped."

She longed to curl into herself, to weep her heart out freely until she was dry of tears and could no longer move, until her lungs and eyes and chest and mouth and shoulders ached from heaving, deep sobs, an ache that would never, ever be compatible to that which she felt in her heart. But Sif could not do this – not before Thor, who likely mourned just as greatly as she.

She swallowed. "I am sorry, my prince.

He simply looked at her. "Sif, we have been fighting aside one another since we were no taller than the Allfather's knee. I am Thor, Sif."

"I am sorry, Thor," she whispered.

**-XXX-**

Unlike before, the blow is not softened – it comes, sweeping, solid, to knock breath from her.

The unkind words of a passing solider would not have normally caught her ear, but the tone with which the gossip is spread is one of disgust, mixed with reverence. She had been making her rounds of the columns that surround the front of the palace, keeping check of the men posted. Standing against one, taking a breath from her suffocating duties of holding over others, she heard them speaking.

"_—From the sword of a mutant Dark Elf –"_

_ " – dead, well and truly?"_

_ "He was bone-dry, wouldn'tve been able to tell, except for the clothes he was wearing. Always in that green and brown, paler than a ghost –"_

They should not have been talking, so she rounded on them, furious. Furious not just for their words, but for their shameless blathering. "Have you not something to do?"

"I am sorry, milady," one apologizes swiftly. Despite her treacherous behavior mere hours ago, her status as one of the prince's own did not neglect her of respect. "We've been a little distracted, what with –"

"I care not for your excuses," she says coldly. "Keep a mind upon your post."

"There is word that they might not be coming," the second says meekly. Though he possessed a full beard and solid build, he was clearly little more than a boy, still in a fullness of youth and ignorance. "The scouts, they have been to the Dark World, and they say that the Elves have been defeated by our Princes Thor and Loki, driven back, and that the Prince Loki was found slain."

The shield-maiden glowers. "Mind your post," was all that she said before sweeping away, long hair rippling after her as she strode past the rows upon rows of tall columns.

Once out of sight, the maiden ducked into an alcove created by two overbearing columns – a secret place she often retired to when nights of feasting and merriment wore upon her. A hide-away many times graced by another who also grew weary of festivities. The prince Loki had joined her here many evenings, where they leaned against cool stone in silent relief, no words passing between them. Theirs, a place of peace – if only for a brief time.

She's often sought his eyes in the dim light of the alcove, only to find them already on her, shining and hooded as every. A glassy green glint in them, always. Far too knowing for her liking.

Now, she rests against the stone, taking in the eerie quiet. The entire kingdom is awash with silence. It's more than mourning. All are holding their breath, waiting to see if what the Dark Elves promised would come true, if they would be overcome by night. In the palace, fear and anticipate grip all those who guard her walls, and the people of the court sit in the apartments, shell-shocked and dried like husks from their weeping. That their queen, one of their own, should be so taken in her own home by one of the treacherous elves of the Dark World….

The Aesir have endured much over the last two years. Losing one prince to banishment, then a supposed death, followed by the betrayal and demise of the second shortly after the fall of the Allfather to Odinsleep. This was only to be passed by crown prince declaring himself bound to a human woman, then the second son attempting to rule the Midgardians and striking up deals with the Chitauri, killing thousands of humans in the process, only to be defeated and dragged home in chains, tossed into the dungeon to be forgotten to time.

Last time Sif had hidden herself away in such a manner was after Loki fell from the Bifrost – _"No," _she recalls, it had been sooner than that. Only a few months ago had she ducked into this place as a small battalion surrounding a shackled Loki marched into the palace. She had not wanted to be among the crowd that gathered to watch him arrive, had not wished to see him in such a state. Leaning into the shadows (_"His element," _her mind had whispered unkindly) she had closed her eyes and listened to the murmur of curious voices, the words of those cruel courtiers who felt no worse for the loss of the younger prince than that of a newly born calf. They were savage in their want to knowledge, their desire to see him bound, chained, and disgraced.

Bile had risen to the back of her throat, and the Lady Sif felt herself sink slowly against the stone, listening to cruel voices and the march of too-heavy boots upon too-polished floors, hating herself for picking out the measured, light gait of one she had known so well among the noise of all the rest.

Now, she feels just as ill within the great silence of sorrow. That of her own, her people, the realms….

There is not doubt in her mind as to what they were discussing. It was within their tone – all discussed the goings-on of the royal family, but the prince Loki had his own special tone dedicated to him. One of a disapproving nature.

Pushing herself from the wall, Sif moves thoughtlessly through the cavernous halls of the palace, one hand resting on her glaive. On her back rests her shield, safely strapped within an easy reach. When she had selected her armor for this day, she had thought she was adequately protecting herself from all possible injures. Unfortunately, she was gravely mistaken.

She finds herself in the great hall. The Allfather sits heavily upon his throne, attended by several stoic warriors. While the hall had been cleared of all debris, the throne was still in utter disrepair. She wonders if this was a purposeful choice on the Allfather's part, or the result of some ceremonial requirement on fixing symbolic chairs. Whichever, the subsequent symbolism is something she half-heartedly admires.

Though he is in council, the Allfather's gaze falls upon her readily enough. He visibly straightens at the sight of the shield maiden.

"My Lady Sif." The deep voice booms across the chamber, rattling in her very bones. It's the same voice that has intimidated her since she was able to walk, the voice of her sovereign and her best friends' father. "I trust all is well along the guardsmen?"

As she approaches, her eyes lower until she is stuck looing at the toes of his boots. Once an appropriate distance from the steps, she sinks to one knee, a fist going to strike her too-worried breast. Upon touching the space over which her heart occupies, Sif is given pause, as she can perhaps just feel the beat of her heart, despite the layers of cloth, leather, and armor. She swallows.

"There is nothing to report, my lord," she says, feeling her throat dry as the words escape.

"Rise, my lady."

She does so, still without turning her gaze upon him, instead looking at the space just left of his head. He dismisses the others. When the chamber is emptying, he speaks again.

"You do not often seek my audience, my lady. Something troubles you. Have you word from my treacherous son?" The question is asked dryly. "Or can I trust one who is equally a traitor?"

Sif shudders at the accusation. She closes her eyes. "My lord, I –"

He stops her. "What you did was in the service of your prince – and most importantly – your friend. For that, I cannot find fault in you."

Only a fraction more at ease, the warrior maiden inclines her head. "Thank you, Allfather."

"Why do you attend to me, Lady Sif?"

She straightens. "I have heard rumors, sire," she begins quietly. Her eyes drift once more, for she wishes not to see what shall rise in the Allfather's expression. She is being impertinent. "From the men I have been charged with, that my prince Loki was left upon the Dark World. I know not whether it to be truth or a falsity of a malicious nature, and I know it is not my place, sire, but I wish to know – was he – was he found, my lord?"

The Allfather is silent for some time. She waits, breath caught in her throat. The air is heavy, too heavy, and the hall too silent. When he finally speaks, it is a temporary relief from her hurried, panicked thoughts.

"My son was found. Dead."

The words are said with an empty finality.

Sif raises her eyes and knows that if she thought it difficult to breathe freely before this moment, the air had turned to lead and her throat was forever closed and she could never hope to inhale with free lungs again for as long as she lived.

"My lord," she says, and that is all she can say. Nothing could possibly ease the depth of the Allfather's sorry. His wife, hundreds of his people, and now his youngest son – gone. And, in a few mere hours, possibly the whole nine realms. Sif cannot conceive of his grief.

Somehow, she finds herself sinking to her knees. The Allfather merely looks on.

"I…I am sorry, sire," she manages. Her chest has never been so tight, and yet Sif struggles to maintain something of a composure. The Allfather needs this. He needs her and everyone else to keep themselves together, to ready themselves for what darkness may come. She must swallow back this pain.

"Rise, Lady Sif, and do not weep, do not mourn," the Allfather commands softly. "He fell in nobility."

She straightens in her kneel, but does not stand. "He was brave, my lord. Honorable in the end, despite…despite…."

There is a flicker in the king's gaze. For a moment, Sif can see nothing but ice – cold and solid and so unlike the Allfather. The shadows and lines upon his face seem to grown deeper, darker. She nearly cannot recognize the cruel visage as her king. But it is not a _dark _thing. It is as if she has said some secret that was not to be spoken. Her words, intent with kindness, ache in the Allfather so, and she bows her head.

"A thousand apologies. My heart aches for you, my lord, though I am sure it is nothing in comparison to what you endure. I keep the prince in my thoughts." Again her hand goes to her breast, pounding with equal ferocity as her heart.

She returns to her post with no further words.

**-XXX-**

Within her dreams, Sif sees the younger prince. Just as before, after Loki fell from Asgard, he creeps into her innermost dreamings, haunting even the most innocent of visions. He rarely speaks, but smirks something awful.

She is in a field populated by delicate blossoms, standing just at the edge of a wood. No matter how far she walks, runs, leaps, the forest is always just behind her. Right there, mere feet away. When she turns back after what feels like hours upon hours of effort, she spots a flash between the trees. Doubling back again, it is the prince. His smile is wide, cutting like a flashing knife. She wants to be afraid. But she finds that she is, instead, curious. Then angry.

The maiden called War hurls herself into the forest, twisting through the brambles for the man who always seems to be just beyond her reach.

It's when she's nearly found him that she wakes in a cool sweat.

The prince has been dead a fortnight. Sif thinks she may have finally forgotten his voice, but his laughter rings in her ears yet.

On another night she rests in her chambers, midday, watching the sky pass outside of her window. There is a quick laugh outside of her door. Sif stands to investigate to find a pair of youths peeking in – the lanky Loki and slender Sif of her childhood, creating mischief. Shocked, she stares until they disappear, after which she moves for the door, peering down the hall only to find it empty, utterly devoid of life or sound. When she turns back to her room, he stands at her window, gazing out upon the clear evening sky – for the sun has dimmed to a reddish glow, and a crescent moon looks down upon them.

"Why do you trouble me here?" she cries. "In my most private place, what business have you here? Dead men ought not vex the living so!"

Loki does not answer. His smile is softer, though it provides little comfort even when he approaches to take her hands in his and kiss her chastely upon the cheek. She closes her eyes, leaning into his coolness, relishing the way his hands splay about her waist and cup her cheek – hating herself for it -

When Sif opens her eyes, she is greeted by the silent darkness of her bedroom.

Knowing there is little else to do, she curses, tosses about for several moments, and resettles, back to the window. Just as she is drifting off again, she feels the ghosting of cold fingers along her spine.

**-XXX-**

"What shall you do?" she asks softly. They are tucked into an alcove of the weaponry, between the cupboard containing sharpening flints and heavy round archery targets and the rack of training spears.

"I will return to Jane." Despite his clearly sorrow and somber attitude, Thor's eyes sparkle at the mention of his lady. "The SHEILD has a place for me – I shall be useful, helping protect the people of Midgard."

Sif sighs mournfully, a small smile pressed into her lips. "I am happy for you. You need to leave this place, Thor, you need air."

"Yes," he agrees readily, taking her hands in his own. "And perhaps you require some fresh air as well, my friend."

His blue eyes are bright with understanding. Sif does all that she can to avoid contact without truly looking away. While it was never made explicitly clear, she and Loki were quite aware that Thor suspected their less-than-platonic affection for one another. He understood her heart better than most would guess.

The offer has her taken aback – though she does not consider it for a moment. Thor is the one who is destined to journey beyond the stars, not she. Sif is one of Asgard. She was born and bred to lead this land. Leaving for such an extended period of time is hardly an option. And now, considering the state to things, she belongs her more than ever. Someone ought to stand by the Allfather's side. If not his sons, let it be she.

As of late their king had been strange in his misery. Sharper than usual. Pricklier. His tolerance for foolishness had decreased doubly. There was no mystery as to why, though the people of the court were rather surprised by the drastic change in their monarch. He was lax in things that were unusual – the measure of guards about the grounds, the funding towards rebuilding less-regarded districts, the budget of the restoration of the libraries and gardens, a mourning period extended into the foreseeable future. It was causing a lot of talk around court. Those foolish enough to prattle openly were quickly silenced by the ice-cold glare of the Allfather. And presuming that was not enough, they were given an all-too-private audience with him,

Squeezing Thor's hands, Sif looks away, shaking her head with a gentle smile. "Thank you, but I think I am in better service here."

He smiles back. "I thought you would say as much."

"Then why ask?"

The prince's smile grows. "Because there is nothing quite like being proved wrong, my lady. And if anyone is to do it, it ought be you."

She is not sure if this is a compliment, but decides to take it as thus.

**-XXX-**

When her forehead touches the cold stone of the dais, Sif figures that she has bowed deeply enough, but waits nonetheless for the graces of the Allfather that shall give her leave to rise. He takes his time giving the word, his clear blue eyes boring into her skull and flattened spine. She dare not breath.

"My lady," he says finally, voice slow and commanding. "To what do I owe this audience?"

She looks up, eyes heavily shielded. Her bare neck feels cool hair trickles back into place as she half-rises, a small _swish _of sound as the dark whip falls in a straight line against her spine. "Allfather, are you in good health?"

Something like a smile moves his thick beard. Her eyes drift to the helmet. She has never liked looking straight into the Allfather's eyes. Nowadays she is even more unnerved by his sharp gaze. In her youth she could have sworn he'd been able to peer into her very soul. That feeling is returning with each passing week since the attack upon their kingdom. Frigga and Loki's demises had intensified the Allfather. Yet she and Thor were confident that, in time, he would return to his usual self.

"I am, many thanks." He shifts. "I assume you requested this meeting seeking more than an update on my health, Lady Sif? Speak your mind. What troubles you?"

She swallows coarsely, throat aching for wants of words. "I am newly returned from the edges of the realm, sir, surveying the realm of Vanaheimr. Upon my return I was surprised to hear from my fellows that the battalion had not been increased. Not the regulars, the palace guard, nor any reserve guardsmen. No recruitment has occurred in the wake of these battles against the Dark Elves. Sire, I must inquire why that is so?"

He watches her impassively. "It was a decision I made, Lady Sif. We have much reconstruction to do, much to rebuild and replenish. Our focus – and our funding – cannot be spared on the expansion of our warring forces."

Floored, the maiden is stock-still. She had returned expecting to have a small legion of men awaiting her, clay to be molded into warriors worthy of Aesir. Instead, she was greeted by an still-sparsely inhabited warrior's hall, her fellows left to spar between themselves – though, they were far more likely to turn to the mead, at least somewhat sooner than they were normally ought to do. "_Surely a mistake," _she thought when Fandall explained that there were no recruits to be trained. _"Something overlooked, misunderstood –" _In her subsequent questioning, she was led to seek audience with the Allfather.

"My lord," she replied steadily. "I fear you make a grave miscalculation. It is well-known throughout all nine realms the losses we bear from the savagery of the Dark Elves. If anything, we must be quick to restore our forces to defend the Aesir from further attack. While we benefit from treaties and gentle truces now, that will surely not be the case should we allow ourselves to remain so undefended."

"Sif," the king replied sharply. "I appreciated your observations, as always, but you fear too keenly the wrath of others. Our nine realms are in harmony for the first time in many ages. The danger you see on our horizons are your paranoia, likely from the centuries spent awaiting such threats."

"My lord –"

"I have spoken, Lady Sif," the Allfather booms. His eyes flash to a glassy green – though perhaps that is an illusion of the light. She shudders, closing her eyes. Then, more gently, he speaks. "My lady, your concern is well-placed and noted. You have always been a most noble, loyal servant to the realm. We have always seen your regard and passion for the well-being of Asgard. Do not believe it goes unnoticed."

The conversation is very clearly over.

Sif's strong jaw clenches. "Thank you, Allfather."

Again, she sinks to her knees. Before she rises once more, Sif looks the king straight in the eyes. The light green-grey she finds there leaves her very unsettled, even when she exits the great hall, and disappears into the weaponry for a bout with a few stuffed dummies.

**-XXX-**

He enters her dreams again. This time, on the too-tall throne of the one who rules the Aesir, looming upon the dais that had, for as long as Sif could remember, belonged to the Allfather Odin. Wearing his horned helmet _ - "You look like a too-skinny cow," _she had teased the day the thing had been awarded to him – and a flowing cape of emerald, his lazily watched her wander about the hall.

"You shan't find it," he tells her.

Startled – she had not thought him able to speak – Sif juts her chin upwards defiantly. She had not been aware she was engaged in the act of seeking. "Find what?"

"That which you seek," he answers coyly, rising from the stone chair. Moving at a languid pace down the stairs, he clasps his hands before himself. Stopping to calmly regard the maiden whose arms are crossed warily before her chest, Loki raises a brow.

"You have no need of armor here."

For the first time, she notes the heaviness of metal encasing her chest, the thick leather gloves upon her hands, tightly-laced boot running up to her knee. She is dressed for battle.

"I didn't –"

"You're feeling defensive, of course you did. You have utter control here, of everything. Well, nearly," he adds as an afterthought, grinning. "You personally have little sway of your own feelings. Not only are you an open book, but you are hardly prepared to shield yourself from your own wrath, shield-maiden."

As he speaks he circles her lazily, predatory. Sif dips her head, brow furrowed.

"What right have you to enter my dreams?" she demands hotly, stepping back so as to break Loki's circling. "You're little more than a ghost, Laufeyson."

He chuckles, the noise turning into a hiss as he paces forward. Every step sends Sif backwards, until she is against one of the massive pillars lining the great hall. His arms rise to create a cage around her. Sif is reminded all too well of their previous liaisons in which this position was utilized. The thought angers her.

"If I am oh-so-gone, so dead to you, my dear, please, explain to me why I'm here, haunting you still?" he suggests, breath against her cheek. His nose ghosts her jawline. Sif gasps at the contact, her hands rising to his shoulders, attempting to push him back. In response, Loki's arms snake to her waist, head burying itself into her neck, inhaling deeply. His cool skin causes hers to be set ablaze with tingling.

Sif manages to wiggle away within a matter of seconds. Jaw set and eyes flashing, she stands back. Her armor has melted away. They now stand in a place between stars, the backdrop of the great hall having disappeared. Sif does not know how or where or in which realm they now commune. She is far too occupied with the ghost before her.

"Why do you always bring more questions then answers?"

Loki smiles sourly. "Why must you always question?"

"Because I am never one to kneel."

This softens that sharp, glassy gaze – the one so like the Allfather's only this afternoon. Sif shivers at the remembrance.

He is upon her again, hands sinking into her hair. This time, she allows the cool lips to rest upon her own briefly. Her own limbs tangle with his, wrapping long, dark locks around her fingers, making every attempt to pull him closer – _closer -_

"What is it I am supposed to be looking for, Loki?" she murmurs into his cheek as he nuzzles her neck. "What is it I seek?"

He laughs, loud and long. "Oh, my lady. I should think it would be _abundantly _clear by now."

A kiss is pressed onto her brow, and she awakes abruptly. Again, the laughter rings in her ears and she can still feel a loving pressuring upon her – waist, lips, neck, cheeks, a hundred ghosting kisses. One hand stretches out to wring itself into the empty space of sheets beside her. He was right – it was all too clear. She sought something that was fleeting still.

**-XXX-**

** As I am eager to post, the editing will be shoddy, I am sure. My apologies. I was dearly hoping to get something out before the November holidays are over. Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends, Hanukkah to those celebrating in the Jewish tradition, and 28****th**** to everyone else! **

**Reviews would be grand! **


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